


A Little Drunk

by eleonorastay



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Brief mentions of sexual content, Drinking, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Language, Mention of Death, Post-Canon, Trauma, Unhealthy Relationships, mentions of nudity, mentions of past trauma, mentions of past violence, mentions of scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-22 17:07:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21080087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleonorastay/pseuds/eleonorastay
Summary: Gale Hawthorne has only kissed three people in all of his life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! I wrote this way back when right after the third book came out. Please let me know what you think. :)

Gale Hawthorne has only kissed three people in all of his life.

First was Katniss’ friend Madge, shortly before the Reaping all those years ago. He says “Katniss’ friend” because he and the pretty little rich girl had always butted heads—or rather, he’d always held a large amount of disdain for her, and wasn’t afraid to show it. Unlike plain, hardworking Katniss, Madge had been spoiled and frivolous, clad in flouncy, impractical dresses with a stupid bow in her hair. That high-pitched giggle she’d let out every time he said something sarcastic made his head ache, and he found himself bothered by the unblemished smoothness of her pale hands. They were like little white birds, flitting from Katniss’ arm to his shoulder to a lock of her own hair and back again. 

He thinks the only time he’s ever seen those hands still was that morning, when she’d given him a hasty peck on the lips before scurrying away to stand with her parents. Those hands had stayed clenched by her sides, as if she was trying to keep from letting them fly to wrap around his neck. Good thing—he wouldn’t have liked it if she’d done that. Her lips had felt soft, too much so against his rough ones. It was like brushing a piece of silk against a tree’s bark. The scent of her hair was too sweet, also. Strawberries, or cotton candy, or something of the sort. Definitely not anything he liked. Every part of her was so bright, like a blast of light enveloping his shadows. He’d decided then that they were too different to ever be…whatever she wanted them to be. Evidently, she had decided the same, since they both kept their distance after that.

The second person was Katniss, of course. Things with her had felt much better than with Madge, more…right. Of course, he actually had a say in whether they kissed or not, which helped. And he’d wanted to kiss Katniss. He liked her. She had shadows of her own, but they’d played well with his. The dry and cracked textures of their mouths had matched perfectly, and her calloused palm gently cradling his cheek had felt indistinguishable from his own. That familiarity was comforting. With her, things felt a little less terrible, like there was a tiny sliver of hope piercing the darkness. Her hair had smelled like forest rain and smoke, a much better partner to the scent of lantern oil and peat moss that clung to his skin. 

Now, he figured what she preferred was something along the lines of freshly baked bread…

But he’s over that. 

The third person, he hadn’t seen coming. In fact, she was probably the last person he would have guessed, if asked. 

It had happened on a Wednesday evening. One of his bad nights, when he would try and stave off the oceans of guilt and remorse by drowning himself in a sea of liquor instead. She’d appeared out of nowhere, plunking down on the barstool next to him. 

“Buy me a drink.” It had been more of a demand than a question, but she sounded tired, so he had obliged. 

“What are you doing here?” The words were slurred, but they had dripped out of his mouth easily. His tongue always loosened up when whiskey was involved. 

“Session ran late with the Doc. Not that it’s any of your business.” Johanna rolled her eyes and downed the entire glass, the ice at the bottom clinking against her teeth. 

“What’re you here for? Still broken up over your cousin and the baker boy?”

“She’s not my cousin...” 

A sharp laugh interrupted him. “Might as well be.” Plunking the now empty glass on the bar and snatching his as a replacement, she raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t see you at the toasting.”

“Wasn’t invited.”

“Bullsh*t. I know Katniss probably told you not to bother showing because you killed her sister and all, but Peeta told me he sent a letter to you. So, you either lurked in the corner sulking the whole night and I just didn’t notice, or you were here getting sloshed.” Smirking, she shook her head patronizingly. The action sent a shower of water droplets splattering across his arm, and he realized it must be raining outside. 

Rolling down his shirtsleeves, he avoided her gaze. “I saw the ceremony. Just left early.”

“Aw, still sore about not getting picked for Maid of Honor? Don’t be. Violet is so not your color.” Sliding both their glasses forwards, she raised her voice to shout. “Hey! Who do I have to talk to for a refill?!”

The bartender hurried over and replenished their drinks, beads of sweat decorating his brow. Giving Gale a pitying grimace, he disappeared into the back, as if chased away by Johanna’s glare. 

“A**hole,” she muttered, slipping her arms out of her soaking jacket and shamelessly adjusting her bra before returning her mouth to the edge of her glass. 

Gale didn’t even try to keep his eyes off the deep V of her tank top. The alcohol managed to stifle his inhibitions as well as his regrets, and something told him she’d be more offended if he didn’t give her a second glance.

“God, you’re a perv. No wonder your cousin ditched you for Bread Boy.” Rolling her eyes, Johanna took his drink again, licking around the rim before throwing it back like a shot. “He’s screwed up, but at least he’s a gentleman about it.” Wiping her mouth on her arm, leaving a streak of what looked like blood but was probably lipstick—or at least, he hoped—she slammed the glass down just in time for the bartender to rush over and fill them up again. Apparently this guy had learned his lesson the first time. 

“She’s not my cousin,” he repeated, snatching his whiskey away before she could take it again. “And you’re not much to look at, anyway.” 

“Hey, whatever you gotta tell yourself. But if that’s how you really feel…” In one go, she’d slipped her top over her head and tossed it over the back of her chair. Gale could feel the mood in the room shift as gaping stares from the bartender and a few middle-aged, bearded patrons in the back closed in on them like moths drawn to a light. 

Shaking out her hair, Johanna casually returned to nursing her drink, pretending to ignore all of the attention. 

“You’re pathetic,” he found himself saying, eyes searching her scar and burn-littered skin for a patch that wasn’t marred. Did she have any part of her body that hadn’t been destroyed by the Capitol?

“No more pathetic than a guy who wastes his life wanting someone he’ll never have.” Shrugging, she gave her drink a tiny sip, a convincing impersonation of an innocent little girl who’d never tried alcohol before. “Although I guess you’re worse, because you have no one to blame but yourself. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for burning those Capitol f*ckwads to a crisp. But blowing up Katniss’ sister? Not your brightest moment.” 

“Shut up.” Guilt pumped through his veins, and his eyes blurred with images of fire and trees and snow. God, he’d come here to forget it all. Couldn’t he have one night where that was possible? 

“Why? You know it’s true. And calling me pathetic for looking like this is even stupider, because guess what?” Leaning forwards, she brushed her lips against his ear. “This is what she looks like, under all her clothes.”

“What?” For a moment, he’d thought she was still talking about Prim, until the true meaning of her words had dawned on him. 

“Worse, actually. That’s your fault too.” Taking advantage of his surprise to pry his glass out of his hands, she tossed him a fake smile. “Of course, Peeta doesn’t mind that she’s deformed. He thinks she’s beautiful. And she doesn’t care that he’s a gimp. They can’t keep their hands off each other. It’s disgusting, really.” Scrambling closer until she was practically in his lap, she dug her nails into his arm and whispered, “Can’t wait until the baby comes. Maybe they’ll name it after you.” 

That’s when he’d lost it. 

Every beat of his heart sounded like Prim’s name, and the breath in his lungs tasted like acid. Part of his brain told him he was going to throw up, while another warned that he was ten seconds away from fainting instead. The whiskey flavor on his tongue wasn’t bitter anymore, and when he rubbed the back of his hand against his mouth, both parts of his body felt clammy and damp, instead of desert-dry and coarse. 

Nothing was right. So, he did the most wrong thing he could.

Ripping the drink out of her hand, he slammed their lips together in the angriest kiss he had ever given. 

Before, he’d never have thought that anyone’s mouth could feel rougher than his. And yet, here she was, broken glass and static electricity and piercing hot flames all at once. With her, his mouth felt like the soft one. His hands were the sparrows flittering away from the furious, clawing crows that were hers. If he was a shadow, she was pitch blackness. 

Of course he knew it was terrible, but the knowledge that there was someone out there more damaged that he was? It was more addicting than anything else he’d tried. 

Not that kissing her was a bad experience in itself. He’d expected her to smell like thunderstorms and whiskey, but all he could make out was the scent of extra-strong coffee, with a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it addition of pine needles. A lot better than strawberries and cotton candy, if you asked him. For some reason, he found the aroma…interesting. Unfamiliar and unexpected, yes, but not unpleasant. 

It wasn’t long before she’d pulled away, jaw practically unhinged and a fire dancing in the dilated pupils of her eyes. By the time she’d finally come up with something rude to say, he’d already walked out, leaving her behind. Any other night, he’d have stayed to wait out the storm. But he knew they were tumbling over the edge of what was okay and what wasn’t, and if that had to happen, he’d rather it not be where other people could see them. Could see him. So, he’d sucked it up and stomped all the way home, ignoring the stinging feeling of the rain on his cheek and the uncomfortable wetness from puddles seeping into his shoe. 

He’d only just nudged the door to his apartment closed before he heard her kick it instead of knocking. Even though he knew it was a bad idea, he flung it open anyway. 

“I don’t care what you have to say.” 

Launching herself at him, she’d crashed her mouth into his like an ocean wave breaking its body against the rocks, chomping down on his lip in the process.  


“Good.”

When he tries to remember the details of the rest of the night, his mind conjures up an impulsive slash of red and grey and white. Not that he was that drunk--he was sober enough to have sex, of course. If the crumpled sheets on his bed weren’t enough of a clue that they had, the scrapes down his back and hickeys dappling his neck like a bout of leprosy definitely proved she’d gotten him out of his clothes. 

Johanna refused to talk about what happened after that second kiss, only to say that it was disappointing and that he should ask Peeta for some pointers. They don’t talk about her telling him halfway through that if he wants, he can pretend she’s Katniss. Can even say her name if he likes. 

“It’s only fair—you’re not the only one thinking of someone else,” she had said. 

He wasn’t. And he had a sneaking suspicion she hadn't been either...


	2. Truth or Dare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gale is frustrated, in more ways that one. And that's all because of one person. 
> 
> A spicy followup chapter. Warning: some vague sexual content, nothing explicit.

It’s not fair.

Not that he expected it to be. The world was full of unjust, cruel ironies and tragedies. He’d been lucky to live through most of them, even luckier to help bring some of them down. But this? This was an enemy he’d never prepared to fight.

He could try and pretend that the problem was that she’d chosen Peeta over him. That he’d driven her away, with his thirst for blood and blindfold of self-importance. That he’d martyred himself and, in the process, had lost everything. That had been the problem, once. But it wasn’t anymore. He had a whole new reason for the indelible stain of guilt that marred his soul. Because that was the whole point, wasn’t it? The end goal, the light at the end of the tunnel. When he’d imagined his future, it had always had one constant: him and Katniss, together. Even after it had become apparent that she and Peeta had officially become a real couple, he still was “the guy who loved Katniss”. That was the guy he was supposed to be, the one he’d always been. 

But it was getting harder and harder for him to remember that’s who he was. And that was all because of one person. 

“You really should start working out,” Johanna nagged, pinching his arm between her fingers. “Anyone looking at you would assume you’re a twelve year old boy. A little more muscle would go a long way in capturing Katniss’ attention.” 

Pressing her against the door, Gale tore his mouth away from her throat to spit back, “Could a twelve year old boy hold you up like this? You’re not the lightest person in the world.”

A short laugh exploded from her lips, and she dug her heel into the base of his spine. “Good thing too. If I lost weight, I wouldn’t have any tits. And wouldn’t that be a shame?” 

Fighting the urge to tell her exactly how much of a shame that would be, he eyed the purpling hickies forming under her ear and snapped, “I’m not trying to get Katniss’ attention.” 

“Whatever you say.” Titling her head to the side, she raised her eyebrows at him. “Give up yet?”

Groaning, he dove his head back into the crook of her neck, hands memorizing the curvature of her waist. He should have known better than to meet up with her. The ‘friendly get together’ had ended with her betting him that he couldn’t make her voice wobble, and so far, he was definitely losing.

Of course, he’d only kissed three girls in his life, her included. Still, he’d thought that his skills would have some effect on her composure. 

He’d just have to try harder.

The first couple of times they’d spent the night together, it had been easy. Half the time he was distracted by his own bitterness, and the other half, he could close his eyes and pretend that the girl underneath or on top of or beside him was the one he’d been dreaming about for the last two years. And for a while, it was easy—the scars lacing her body could have belonged to Katniss, and if he didn’t focus on anything except the way she felt in his hands, the differences were easy to ignore.

But somewhere along the line (don’t ask him where), things changed. His eyes didn’t stay shut anymore, and for some reason he didn’t care. Instead of holding his breath and trying to recall the scent of forest rain and smoke, he’d let the smell of pine needles fill his nostrils. Perhaps worst of all, the hand that usually would search the planes of her back for a braid to twist between his fingers learned to cling to the short hairs at the nape of her neck.

“This is boring,” Johanna sighed, nails piercing his shoulders like raindrops speared the sky. The pink flush circling her collarbone told a different story, but he decided not to bring it up. 

Crawling up from the lower half of the bed, he kissed her hard enough to bruise. “If you want to leave, go ahead.”

Sighing, she scraped stinging patterns into his skin, pretending to contemplate the option. She liked to think that he was oblivious to her games, but he knew that if she were really bored, she’d have peaced out a long time ago.

“Eh. I’m out of wine at home.” Reaching over, she plucked a bottle of red regrets from his nightstand and took a liberal swig, not even bothering to wipe her mouth before smashing her lips into his. 

She always got competitive about whose kiss hurt more. 

It wasn’t right. How could he have loved Katniss for so long, and then forget about her so fast? Johanna wasn’t that good in bed.

Well, okay, that wasn’t exactly true. 

But it didn’t make sense. He wasn’t supposed to enjoy the way she’d bite his tongue and claw at his back and shove his head where she wanted it. The way she’d laugh at him, taunt him, tell him to try harder, no wonder she doesn’t want you—it should make him angry, or at least angry enough to toss her away and abandon her there in his bed. 

None of that should make him want more. 

And he feels guilty, he feels so guilty because it used to be a different name ghosting over his lips when he’d touch himself at night, and now he can’t even stop himself from saying hers out loud, letting it remain there in the dark like a broken promise until the sun comes up.

He shouldn’t think about her when he’s sober, how she flinches when it rains. Only one other person has ever teased out that urge to swallow her up in his arms and show her that there’s more to life than pills and whiskey and bitter words. And that’s not fair, because he’s always operated under the assumption; the mantra; the religion that only one girl in his universe has earned the right to bring that feeling out in him. 

When she pushes him away and cusses him out for trying to take care of her, it should be all she needs to say to make him go away. But he can’t help it, and he doesn’t know why he would ever choose someone so painful to care about. 

“You can do better than that,” she sighs disinterestedly, hands sliding up and down the column of his neck. “Come on, give her something Peeta won’t! Which isn’t much—he’s beyond twitterpated. So I guess you’d better get creative.”

“Shut up.” he growls, slamming his hands into the wall above hers and stilling his movements. 

If she’s surprised, she’s too seasoned of an actress to show it. She tries to wriggle her hips against his, but his total weight has effectively pinned her to the bed. Seeing her pupils dilate with frustration at the loss of control makes him smirk. 

Rolling her eyes, she continues despite the warning. “What’s the matter? Did I wreck your little fantasy by mentioning Bread Boy?”

“I said shut up.” Dipping his head, he allows just an inch of space between their faces. The look in her eyes clearly tells him she wants to kiss him. But she can’t, and he’s certainly not going to initiate it now that he knows she wants him to. 

“Is this your idea of creative?” she snorts. 

“We’ll get to that.” Shifting his hips forward once—just as a reminder—he leans forwards to whisper in her ear.

She says she hates that. The intimacy makes her want to gag, apparently. But he needs to tell her something, and for once he wants it to be soft.

“I’m not thinking about Katniss. I’m thinking about you. And I don’t care how long it takes, or how good the guy you’re thinking about is. I’m going to make you think about me too.” 

That catches her off guard; he can tell by the way she swallows. But, never one to back away from a challenge, she twists her head and says,   
“Prove it.”


End file.
